Clandara (56 page)

She could see nothing in his face; it was quite cool and expressionless as he looked down at her.

‘Yes, I would be glad to.' She had completely forgotten that Francis O'Neil was waiting for her in the Salon d'Appollon. He had not been asked to the Trianon, and after that week he had told her he would be forced to leave Versailles as his money was finished and he was no further advanced in his search for a commission than the day he arrived there. Only as they passed into the supper room did Anne remember and she saw him standing in the distance, looking for her. He was her constant companion now; her shield against the attentions of the men who knew she was to all intents alone, her companion, her provider, her hunting partner. They had grown very intimate in those long days and she knew all about him, from the bleak childhood in Rome with the exiled Stuarts, to the dirt and privations suffered by the mercenary soldier. Not a word of impropriety had passed between them; he had never done more than kiss her hand, and yet she sensed that there was something more.

‘Oh, Charles, I forgot; there's poor Captain O'Neil. I promised to have supper with him and we thought perhaps the King might speak to me and I could present him … can't we ask him to join us? Please?'

Charles looked across at the man standing half turned away from them, searching among the crowd streaming in; one of the Irish mercenaries, no doubt, hanging about in a pathetic search for favour from a singularly ungenerous King. He saw the handsome face at that moment, and the fine breeding in the features, and turning to Anne, he said coldly: ‘No, my dear. You may pick up with what rag tags you choose when I'm not with you, but I don't care to eat with money soldiers. He must find someone else to sponsor him tonight.'

They supped in the long room, where Francis had sat with her the night they first met, and in spite of herself she felt happy; the moment of coolness was gone; she could force herself to forget the unkindness in that refusal; instead, she held on to the previous time they spent together, and her heart ached and yearned for this to be the normal way of life between them. Perhaps she bored him still; it was so difficult to tell, that thin dark face was such an impossible page to read except when it was full of mockery and illumined by his savage temper. The eyes which considered her said nothing either, occasionally they grew light as he smiled, but it was not a change she trusted. And yet he was all she wanted, even the uncertainty and fear of being with him was more than the tenderest attentions from any other man.

When the supper was over, there was dancing in the Salon d'Appollon and the King made an appearance with the Du Barry, whose little doll's face was flushed with wine and her voice a tone above its usual pitch. When she was bored or unhappy she drank, and she had been both that evening. She was ready to burst into tears and shout a stream of fishwife language at the smirking courtiers who had witnessed yet another snub delivered by Marie Antoinette that night. For a moment Anne thought again of Francis O'Neil, but though she looked among the crowd, she could not see him, and again the King passed quickly through the company and spoke to hardly anyone. When he left, Charles turned to Anne.

‘It grows late, and I grow weary,' he said. ‘It was an interminable play, intolerably acted. I pray to God we shan't have to sit through another for a very long time.'

‘I enjoyed it,' Anne said unsteadily. ‘I wasn't bored at all.' For a moment the pale eyes gleamed at her, with laughter, with contempt – it was impossible to tell. He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘As I said, there's much of the country about you still. Good night, madame.'

She made her way out of the stuffy room and when she came to the corridors beyond the Galérie des Glaces, Anne began to run, and as she ran, the tears were flowing down her face. At the doorway to her rooms, she paused; in all her life she had never so far forgotten herself as to cry before a servant; none but her old nurse had ever seen her weep. With an effort she composed herself and opened the door. The maid, Marie-Jeanne, was dozing on her stool; she sprang up, blushing and stammering at being caught asleep.

‘Undress me quickly,' Anne said. She felt intolerably tired. Her legs ached from standing and she now felt the full weight of her heavy dress. The dress, the petticoats, the corselet, the panniers, at last they were laid aside and a lawn nightgown, warmed by the fire, was slipped over her head. The jewels and false-hair pieces were taken off and Marie-Jeanne brushed her long hair as she had done since her mistress was a child.

The bed was warmed by a pan filled with hot coals; there was a hot brick wrapped in flannel at the bottom for her feet. Anne lay back and closed her eyes while the maid drew the covers up and tucked them in. Then she curtsied.

‘Good night, madame.'

‘Good night, Marie-Jeanne. Blow out the bedside candle.' She fell asleep immediately; not long afterwards, she woke with a sensation of someone touching her, and found that it was not a dream. She tried to sit up with a cry of fear, and Charles's voice said out of the darkness: ‘Lie still! Who did you think it was – your Irish money soldier …?'

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About the Author

Evelyn Anthony is the pen name of Evelyn Ward-Thomas, a female British author who began writing in 1949. She gained considerable success with her historical novels—two of which were selected for the American Literary Guild—before winning huge acclaim for her espionage thrillers. Her book,
The Occupying Power
, won the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize, and her 1971 novel,
The Tamarind Seed
, was made into a film starring Julie Andrews and Omar Sharif. Anthony's books have been translated into nineteen languages. She lives in Essex, England.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1962, 1963 by Anthony Enterprise, Ltd.

Cover design by Mimi Bark

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2461-7

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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